This Is Our Fight
by The Talismaniac
Summary: Pyro's girlfriend is hiding something. Can he uncover her secrets before they destroy everything - and everyone - he loves? (Post X1, pre X2. R&R appreciated. Rated R for language and murder.)
1. Pyro and Optica

p"Fuck!" Saint  
  
John Allerdyce cursed loudly as the first fat drops of water hit his palm. The  
  
flame he'd been cradling there flickered violently for a brief moment, then  
  
sputtered and fizzled out. He gave an irritated sigh, glanced upward, and presented the sky with his middle finger. The only response he got was a face full of water as the rain began to pour. "Figures," was all he said, getting to his feet and beginning to trudge back up the hill toward his school./ppIt had been that sort  
  
of day. He'd been lectured all the way through his morning classes about the  
  
fact that he hadn't done any homework, which was annoying enough because he  
  
knew the material, and he knew the teachers iknew /ihe knew the material,  
  
but they still chose to be anal about it. Something about "taking  
  
responsibility seriously and completing all designated tasks" – he wasn't  
  
sure, he hadn't listened very closely. And then his best friends Bobby Drake  
  
and Marie D'Ancanto had disappeared to spend the afternoon together, leaving  
  
John to his own devices. And most people would agree this was a serious problem,  
  
considering the devices John had available to him./ppHe waited until he  
  
was inside the school building before pulling his treasured shark Zippo lighter  
  
out of his pocket. He knew there was a rule against students using their powers  
  
inside the buildings, but he could see no one as he glanced around the main  
  
hall; deciding it was worth the risk, he flicked the lighter and drew the flame  
  
into his palm, letting it twine around his fingers. The rainwater evaporated off  
  
his hand as he held the flame, coaxing it into ever-brighter radiance./ppJohn Allerdyce, whose  
  
friends knew him as Pyro, was one of the many "gifted" students at Doctor  
  
Xavier's private school for exceptional children. His particular gift was  
  
pyrokinetics, which of course was what had earned him the nickname, and the  
  
"exceptional children" the school catered to were mutants – the next step  
  
in the course of human evolution, the outcasts of society because of their  
  
unique and sometimes dangerous abilities. Under Professor Xavier's care the  
  
children were trained to use their powers wisely and well, and many stayed on at  
  
the school after they graduated – several had even become teachers there  
  
themselves./ppA loud snap echoed  
  
through the grand hall, making John jump. His flame vanished in an instant as he  
  
automatically hid his hands behind his back, looking around innocently and  
  
hoping to hell that nobody had seen what he'd just done. A second snap  
  
directed his attention to the foot of the main staircase, where an unfamiliar  
  
girl sat, staring at her hands and looking very bored indeed. As he watched, she  
  
snapped her fingers, and to his astonishment a small spark leapt from her  
  
fingertips and kindled itself into a tiny fire in her palm./ppJohn gaped openly at  
  
her. Shock and resentment fought for dominance within him; shock, because  
  
Professor X had never told him there was another pyrokinetic in the school, and  
  
resentment because this strange girl who was obviously at least two or three  
  
years his junior had accomplished something he had never been able to – she  
  
had icreated/i her own fire./pp"Hey!" he called  
  
out. Her head snapped up and she stared at him as he strode across the hall  
  
towards her. "Hey, how'd you do that?" he demanded./ppThe girl eyed him for  
  
a very long moment before answering. She was small, quite slim, and looked about  
  
fourteen or fifteen years old; her hair was long and curly, a deep shade of red  
  
that contrasted sharply with her pale olive-toned skin and brilliantly green  
  
eyes. Her thin lips twisted into a mischievous smile as she said, "Why ya  
  
wanna know?"/ppJohn's temper  
  
flared in an instant. Hadn't the day been bad enough without getting sassy  
  
backtalk from a little girl? "Because I do," he growled. "You going to  
  
tell me or not?"/ppShe cocked her head  
  
to one side and her smirk widened. "Not, I think," she said sweetly, still  
  
staring at him./ppFurious, John reacted  
  
without thinking. His hand flew out and snatched at the fire she cupped in her  
  
palm – and came away empty. His jaw dropped. The girl tipped her head back and  
  
roared with laughter. "How'd you—" he sputtered, and then tried to touch  
  
her flame again, more gently this time. Again, the fire fluttered under his  
  
fingertips but was absolutely unaffected by the energy he poured into it./pp"Rhiannon!" A  
  
voice that positively crackled with authority echoed down the stairwell./ppBoth John and the  
  
little girl jumped guiltily; the girl leapt to her feet and extinguished the  
  
flame in an instant. "Yes, Miss Munroe?" the girl said in a deceptively  
  
innocent tone of voice, glancing up the stairs./ppOroro Munroe, known  
  
to her students as Storm, came striding down the steps, eyeing the girl with an  
  
expression halfway between amusement and disapproval. "You iknow/i the  
  
rule about using powers indoors, Rhiannon," she said with gentle chastisement  
  
in her tone./ppThe girl sighed.  
  
"Yes, Miss Munroe," she said glumly./ppJohn gaped as the  
  
image of the girl before him flickered and then, abruptly, vanished. In her  
  
place stood a much older girl, at least his own age, with a round face and mousy  
  
blonde hair that fell into her large blue-grey eyes. Storm nodded, satisfied./pp"And John," she  
  
added, looking at him, "you should know better than to encourage her." He  
  
opened his mouth to defend himself, but Storm was already walking away./ppThe girl turned  
  
toward John, hanging her head. "'m sorry," she mumbled, addressing his  
  
shoes instead of his face. "I didn't mean to make you so mad. I was only  
  
messing around."/ppJohn blinked. He was  
  
utterly unused to anyone iapologizing/i for their treatment of him, and,  
  
caught off his guard, he felt his anger evaporate. "It's alright," he  
  
said, still sounding slightly shocked. "I… look, who are you, and what  
  
exactly just happened there?"/ppShe continued to talk  
  
to his sneakers. "My name's Rhiannon," she sighed. "Rhiannon Graves.  
  
I'm a photomanipulator."/pp"What, you mean,  
  
like, you can mess around with people's pictures?"/ppShe shook her head.  
  
"No, I mean I have the ability to manipulate light. Everything you see is just  
  
a reflection of light off some atoms – I can change the light, change the way  
  
it's reflected, make it seem a different color, that sort of thing. That's  
  
why I looked different a moment ago."/pp"So you…" John  
  
was having a difficult time wrapping his head around this one. "You're sort  
  
of like a shapeshifter, then?"/pp"No." Rhiannon  
  
shook her head again. "I can't manipulate atoms, I can only manipulate the  
  
way the light reflects off those atoms. If you tried to touch anything I created  
  
your hand'd just go right through it. It's like—" she paused as though  
  
searching for a metaphor. "I had a photography class once, and my teacher was  
  
always going on about how nothing we see is real. Everything is just a  
  
reflection of light. We just take it for granted that because there are a  
  
certain set of physical rules that govern the way we perceive that light, that  
  
what we're seeing is really physically there. Me, I can warp those rules. Like  
  
Professor X, you know, he can get inside people's minds and make them think  
  
they're seeing things that aren't there, right? Or a shapeshifter could make  
  
someone see something by taking on an actual physical form. But me, my powers  
  
are halfway in between: they're not mental and they're not physical. I  
  
change the way people perceive things without ever actually getting into their  
  
heads." She sighed. "It's kind of hard to explain."/ppBut John was finally  
  
nodding. "No, I think I get you," he said slowly. "So when I saw you  
  
playing with that fire just now, it was only light being reflected in a way it  
  
shouldn't have been. It wasn't really fire at all, and that's why I  
  
couldn't use it."/pp"Exactly," she  
  
said, then looked at him keenly, her eyes on his face for the first time.  
  
"What d'you mean, you couldn't use it?"/ppGrinning broadly,  
  
John glanced around to make sure there were no more teachers in the vicinity and  
  
then clicked his lighter open. It sparked and flared up immediately, and he  
  
pulled the flame into his palm, letting it spread over his fingers until it  
  
looked as though his whole hand were on fire. He allowed it to burn for several  
  
more seconds before clenching his fist and putting it out. "I'm  
  
pyrokinetic," he said, pocketing his lighter once more./ppTo his surprise, he  
  
found Rhiannon gazing at him with a quite rapt expression. "You can manipulate  
  
fire?" she said breathlessly./pp"Yeah," he said,  
  
his ego swelling a bit. Finally, here was someone who seemed to appreciate his  
  
abilities! "I can't create it, though," he admitted bitterly. "The  
  
Professor keeps telling me to 'accept the limitations of my abilities,'"  
  
he mimicked, a snarl in his voice, "but I think he's trying to hold me back.  
  
Doesn't want me burning down the school, or something." He rolled his eyes./pp"That is still iunbelievably/i  
  
cool," Rhiannon breathed. She looked as though she were about to say something  
  
else, but at that moment two more students came skidding down the hall toward  
  
them, both sopping wet and laughing madly./pp"Rhi!" the girl  
  
squealed, colliding with Rhiannon and almost knocking her over as she tried to  
  
hide behind her. "Rhi, make him stop poking me!" she giggled./ppRhiannon laughed and  
  
looked over at the tall white-haired boy who had slid to a halt in front of her.  
  
"What the hell have you two been doing?" she asked him, grinning./pp"Nothing!" the  
  
boy said, trying to look innocent and failing spectacularly./pp"Nothing,"  
  
Rhiannon repeated, sounding as though she was trying valiantly to stifle a  
  
snicker. Suddenly remembering that John was still there, she turned to him.  
  
"Sorry, didn't mean to be rude. This is Nisse Winters," she said, pointing  
  
to the Asian girl now peering over her shoulder, "and that's her boy-toy  
  
Dante Williams."/pp"iBoy-toy?!/i"  
  
Dante snapped. "I resent that!" When Rhiannon only smirked at him, he turned  
  
to John and held out a hand. "They call me Diablos," he said./pp"I'm John,"  
  
John said, shaking Dante's hand firmly and noticing that the boy was wearing  
  
gloves. "How come you're Diablos?"/ppIt was Rhiannon who  
  
answered. "Pray you never find out," she said emphatically, shivering./ppJohn raised an  
  
eyebrow at Dante, but got no more explanation. "And what do they call you?"  
  
he asked Nisse instead./pp"Angelis," she  
  
replied. She stepped out from behind Rhiannon and moved close to Dante, who  
  
slipped an arm around her waist./pp"Diablos and  
  
Angelis," John repeated, looking back and forth between them. "Cute."/pp"Pure coincidence,  
  
I assure you," Rhiannon said, rolling her eyes at her friends, who were both  
  
grinning broadly. "Anyways, I've got to go – I promised this pair I'd  
  
have lunch with them. I'll see you around, alright?"/pp"Yeah, sure,"  
  
John said, nodding to her and waving as the three other teens turned away and  
  
disappeared through a door. "Well," he said to no one, "that was…  
  
bizarre."/ppPulling out his  
  
lighter once more, he flicked it open and shut as he wandered off down the hall./p 


	2. The Three Musketeers

"I want him!"

Nisse glanced over at her best friend as the trio stepped out onto the patio behind the dining hall, and burst into laughter again. "Him? You mean pyro-boy out there?"

"YES! Him!" Rhiannon exclaimed. "Why the bloody hell didn't anyone tell me there was a pyrokinetic in this school?!"

"Hmm, let's think about this," Dante said sarcastically, finding a table and pulling out a chair for each of the girls before seating himself. "Just a thought here, but maybe it could be because you were arrested for 'accidentally' starting a fire that burned down three city blocks? Shit, girl, and they call _him_ Pyro! Ten bucks says you've done more damage than he ever has!"

Rhiannon grinned impishly at him without a trace of remorse. "Okay. Point. But it was only abandoned warehouses that were scheduled for demolition anyway, it's not like it was anything important! I didn't, you know, put people out of homes or anything!"

Dante shook his head. "You're hopeless. You know that, right?"

"Damn skippy," Rhiannon retorted happily.

Rhiannon Graves was seventeen years old and had been living on the streets since her mother's death eight years before. Her father, never tolerant of her "unnaturalness" as he called it, had thrown her from his house before his wife was even buried. She had survived easily enough, able to steal food from street vendors by projecting a false image of herself, pretending to examine their wares while she was actually pocketing them; anyone who tried to mug her tended to suddenly find a very large, _very_ muscular man looming over them. But when Storm had rescued her from jail and the Professor had offered her room and board as long as she kept her grades up and kept herself out of trouble, she'd taken them up on the offer eagerly. She'd been at the school for almost four months now, and was happier than she'd ever been before.

"So what d'you want for lunch?" Nisse asked the pair of them. "Looks like it's teriyaki chicken or cream of mushroom soup with mashed potatoes."

"Potatoes!" Rhiannon sang, bouncing up and down in her chair. "What?" she asked, when both Nisse and Dante stared at her. "Potatoes are fun."

"Fun. Right," Dante repeated blankly, and turned to his girlfriend. "Who let her into the crack stash again?"

Nisse just laughed, and Rhiannon blew a raspberry at him. Finally they managed to settle down enough to actually go get their lunches. Their table was quiet for several minutes as the hungry teens concentrated on their food.

"HEADS UP!" All three of them automatically shot back from the table as a basketball landed on it, hitting a plate and sending mashed potato flying in every direction.

"Sorry, sorry!" A thin girl with close-cropped black hair and hazel eyes came jogging up to the table, looking thoroughly embarrassed and apologetic. "Sorry, guys," she said again, "that wasn't supposed to happen—"

Rhiannon burst into giggles. "What'd you do this time, Sparks?"

The girl, whose name was Elizabeth Donnen, grinned sheepishly. "We're working on our catapult for physics class," she said, gesturing back to her own table where several of her classmates were sitting with their heads in their hands, glaring at her. "I accidentally touched it before we had it ready, and…" She held up a finger, and the trio saw a crackle of electricity spark across it. "…yeah," she finished lamely.

Nisse snorted with laughter. "Maybe you should let them deal with it until it's finished?" she suggested. "Or at least take it outside where there's not so much danger of attack by projectile potatoes."

"Projectile—" Sparks goggled at her. "Heeeeey! Now THERE'S a thought!" And she trotted off back to her own table, a thoughtful expression on her face.

Nisse stared after her, horrified. "Oh, gods," she moaned. "I gave her an idea."

Dante watched Sparks go with his usual blank face, then turned to Nisse. "You do realize that if she does anything, I'm holding you personally responsible," he said calmly.

"Promise?" Nisse asked slyly, and both Rhiannon and Dante roared with laughter.

"Dammit, Angelis, you _know_ what I meant," Dante growled, but he was still chuckling.

Nisse pretended to pout for a moment, then gave up her charade with a smile. "I know, I know," she said, leaning over to kiss him.

Rhiannon shuddered slightly at the sight of her friends' touch, and kicked herself mentally for not being able to suppress it. "Sorry," she said apologetically when she realized Dante had seen it.

Dante smiled sadly. "Don't worry about it, Rhi," he said quietly. "You know I don't blame you."

Nobody was quite sure exactly what the full extent of Dante Williams' abilities was, but part of it definitely involved nightmares. Dante wore gloves and long sleeves for much the same reason that their classmate Rogue wore them – anyone he touched began to relive the worst moments in their lives, and if he held on long enough, they became permanently trapped within their own heads, floundering in sorrow and depression, unable to care about anything, until they wasted away. It was not a pleasant experience, and Rhiannon knew it firsthand.

It had only happened once; the three of them had been in town doing some summer shopping. Because of the heat, Dante had taken off his red leather coat and gloves, and for once Rhiannon had been wearing a sleeveless shirt. They'd been crossing a street, Rhiannon lagging behind to wave at a puppy, when a drunk driver had careened into the crosswalk. Dante's superb reflexes had snatched her out of harm's way a split second before she'd have been killed, but the moment his bare arms wrapped around her, her face had gone slack, wide-eyed and horrified.

Though the contact had lasted less than thirty seconds, Rhiannon spent the next two days in a bed in the hospital wing, huddled under a mound of blankets and rocking back and forth, staring blankly at nothing. She had even refused to eat for a while, but eventually she was coaxed back into a conscious awareness of her surroundings. Nisse told Rhiannon later that Dante had been almost in tears when he'd carried her into the school – and that was no small matter for a boy who usually expressed the emotional range of a turnip.

Rhiannon had never told anyone what she'd seen when Dante touched her, and they hadn't pushed the topic, but since that day, every time she watched Nisse and Dante touch, she shivered, and a haunted, deadened look came over her face.

The real mystery, however, was why Dante and Nisse were able to touch at all. No one, not even Professor Xavier, could explain it, but Dante's powers had not the slightest effect upon his girlfriend. Someone had suggested that perhaps it was because Nisse had had such a pleasant life that she had no negative experiences to be reminded of, but this didn't really make sense; even the smallest child has terrors – bogeymen under the bed, things that go bump in the night, the schoolyard bully who steals your lunch money. Someone else had suggested that maybe it was because Dante simply did not want his powers to work on her, but Dante had glared that one down and retorted that, if it worked like that, Rhiannon never would have ended up in the hospital wing.

After a while, people had learned to drop the subject.


	3. Illusions

"Yo! Earth to Pyro!" Bobby Drake snapped his fingers under his best friend's nose. John had been staring moodily at his lighter flame for a good twenty minutes, and Bobby was beginning to wonder what was wrong with him.

"What? Sorry," John muttered, blinking and looking up.

"What's up with you, man?" Bobby demanded. "You're totally out of it. You have been for the last, like, three days."

"Sorry," John repeated, shaking his head a bit to clear it. The truth was, he couldn't stand to be around Bobby these days, at least not when his girlfriend Marie – or Rogue, as she preferred to be called – was there. One on one with either of them, John was perfectly comfortable; he and Bobby could joke around, be guys, and he and Rogue had gotten into some really great conversations. But when the three of them were together, Bobby and Rogue tended to go off into their own little world, leaving John feeling completely ignored and excluded. And they'd both gotten so damn condescending! Bobby used to be able to appreciate a good prank – hell, he'd helped John pull off more than a few of them since they'd been at school together. But lately every time he started to goof around, Bobby or Rogue would tell him to "be nice" or "grow up." Where the hell was the fun in that?

"Are you alright, John?" Rogue asked, a slight frown creasing her forehead.

"I'm fine." Snapping his Zippo shut, John stood up. "I think I'm going to go practice for a little while. Later."

He stalked off across the lawns before they could find an excuse to call him back. He loved them both, he really did – but the sick feeling of resentment currently occupying the pit of his stomach was not making it easy to be around them just now.

He headed for the most secluded place he could think of, since he didn't particularly feel like dealing with people: a small stone courtyard tucked away in a far wooded corner of the school grounds. It wasn't used much – most of the other students preferred the green lawns or tree-lined walks for practicing – but Pyro liked this particular courtyard because it was out of the way and, because it was stone, it was far less likely he'd cause any serious damage if he missed.

Not that he missed, of course.

Much.

But to his confusion, when he stepped through the trees that hid the courtyard from the rest of the grounds, it… wasn't there. Instead, there was what looked like someone's living room. A couch sat facing an entertainment center; a small table beside it sported a trendy lamp and a steaming cup of something John presumed was coffee. The dusty blue carpet blended seamlessly back into grass when it reached the edge of the clearing. A woman was seated on the couch, watching the swirl of colors across the television screen, and a man… a man stood behind her, his back to John, and his hand was moving slowly toward the woman's shoulder…

Realizing he was staring, John moved to back up and leave whoever it was to their training – and as he did so, his foot caught a tree root and he suddenly found himself flat on his back and cursing loudly. He was dimly aware of the whole scene giving a strange glimmer, as if for a moment everything was glowing, and suddenly there was no more couch and no more television and no more woman, just the bare stone of the familiar courtyard, and Rhiannon Graves, sitting cross-legged in the middle of it and blinking at him.

"Shit," he groaned, pulling himself into a sitting position and feeling his ribs. "That's gonna hurt in the morning…"

Rhiannon leapt to her feet and scampered over to him. "Oh, jeez, are you okay? I'm so sorry – I didn't mean to startle you or anything—"

John looked up at her in surprise. What was this? She wasn't expecting him to apologize for interrupting her? _She_ was actually apologizing for tripping _him_ up, when it wasn't even her fault? Whoa… this was new. Suddenly he wanted to reassure her that she wasn't to blame.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," he said, waving her off because she was hovering over him like an anxious mother hen. He scrambled to his feet with another groan, still clutching his right side. "See?" he said, spreading his arms to show her. "No harm done."

"You sure?" She looked up at him, still looking quite concerned.

"I'm sure," he said firmly – then yelped when she reached out and poked his side. "Hey!"

"Maybe you should go to the hospital wing," she said doubtfully.

"I'm FINE!" John snapped, getting annoyed again. It was only a damn tree root, and it was his own damn fault anyway!

Rhiannon seemed to shrink. "Sorry," she mumbled, speaking to his sneakers again.

Feeling guilty for snapping at someone who had only been trying to help him, John softened his tone. "'s alright," he said. "I just hate people fretting over me. Makes me feel like I'm two years old." She sniffed, and to his horror he realized she was crying. "Oh, shit," he said apologetically, "don't cry! Look, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings – god—"

She shook her head. "It wasn't you," she said, wiping her eyes with the back of her long sleeve.

"It wasn't?" John stared down at her, now thoroughly confused.

"No." She wiped her eye again, leaving a streak of black eyeliner smudged across her cheek. "I just…" she took a deep, steadying breath. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to be like this, I didn't expect anyone to be here. Not this early in the morning, anyway. I've just been thinking too much, that's all. And when you yelled, I just… Anyway, it's not your fault," she said again.

"Right." John gave up trying to follow her loopy logic and settled for the new topic of conversation. "You alright?" he asked. He kept staring at the stray streak of eyeliner; it was beginning to irritate him.

"Fine," she said firmly, finally looking him in the face once more. "Really," she added, when he continued to look at her skeptically.

"As long as you're sure," he said with a shrug, glancing at the streak again. He was itching to tell her to wipe it off.

She cocked one eyebrow at him. "Why the bugger do you keep staring at my cheek?" she demanded.

John jumped, startled by the change in her tone, and then gave her a sheepish smile. "Your makeup…" he said, gesturing at her cheek. "It smudged."

"Oh, _fuck_," she sighed, raising her sleeve again and rubbing at her cheek – missing the streak by several inches. "I forgot I was wearing eyeliner. Damn." Her sleeve finally found the streak, but only succeeded in smearing it further across her face.

"Here," John said suddenly, "let me get it." He reached out without thinking, moving to wipe the streak away with his own sleeve.

"Don't," she said softly, pulling her chin gently to one side and out of his hand.

John blinked, and realized what he'd just done. "Oh!" he exclaimed, yanking his hands back. "Shit, I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to do that – I'm sorry – look, I'm just gonna go." He turned on his heel, but found himself held back when she grabbed hold of his arm. He looked around at her, surprised.

"I didn't mean it that way," she said, and gave him a small smile. "I only meant, don't use your shirt sleeve. It's white. Wouldn't want to get black eyeliner all over it. The stuff doesn't wash out easily." She held up a small square of black fabric that she'd pulled out of a pocket; after a moment, John realized it was a handkerchief.

"You carry a handkerchief on you?" he said in amused disbelief, taking the thing and turning back to her. Who the hell carried a handkerchief these days?!

"I know it's silly," she said with shrug and a self-deprecating smile, "but that's just me. I'm unique, what can I say?"

'Unique' was _definitely_ a good word for her, John thought as he gingerly took her chin in his hands again and used the handkerchief to wipe away the streak of black. She was certainly the only person he'd ever known who carried a handkerchief. And she was one of the very, very few who had ever apologized to him. He wondered vaguely why he kept coming back to that; for some reason, her willingness to apologize touched him in a way he had not expected, even if he did find a little ridiculous because the things she apologized for weren't her fault. Even so, he appreciated it more than he wanted to admit.

He tilted her face to one side to be sure he'd gotten all the black, and realized she was staring at him. "What?" he asked, trying to squash the tiny voice in his head that was pointing out how pretty her eyes were.

"Nothing," she said quickly, with a smile that made him seriously doubt her. "Have you got it all?"

"Uh. Yeah," he said, dropping his hands hurriedly and stepping away from her before giving the handkerchief back. "I'll let you get back to your practicing now, or whatever you were doing."

"Nah, it's all right," she said. "I think I need to lay off for a couple days."

"You sure?"

"Yes," she said firmly, and for a moment she looked distant and incredibly sad. Then she looked up at him. "If… if you're going to practice here, d'you mind if I stay to watch for a while?"

"Watch?" He stared at her blankly. "Why?"

She shrugged, and to his amazement began to turn pink. "I dunno. I just have this… thing… about fire."

"A thing about fire," he repeated, still staring.

"Yeah." She shrugged again. "I mean, you saw me pretending to play with some the other day, you know, when we met. Last week. And…" she hung her head, back to staring at his shoes. "And I used to play with real fire, only then I got arrested for burning down a couple buildings. After that the Professor made me promise, no more real fire."

John gaped at her – he found it incredibly difficult to imagine that one. "You did what?" he burst out, before he could stop himself.

"Yeah, I know," she sighed. "Not cool. But it wasn't people's houses or anything, it was just some old warehouses nobody wanted! They were going to tear them down anyway!" she explained, as though pleading with him to forgive her.

"Not cool? Are you kidding me? That's fucking _awesome!_" he exclaimed, grinning at her.

Rhiannon's jaw dropped. "Awesome? I—but—" She blinked. "Most people tell me I'm insane and I need serious therapy," she admitted. "I think you're the first person who ever called it _cool_."

"Yeah, well, you said yourself nobody was hurt. No harm done, right? Just a bunch of ashes and some big-shot CEO loses a couple thousand dollars to repairs."

For a moment, Rhiannon just stared at him, and then she gave him the biggest and brightest smile he'd ever seen. The change it made to her face was amazing, and for a fleeting moment he actually found himself thinking she was pretty. "So is that a yes, then?" she asked.

"Huh? Yes what?"

"Can I stay and watch you practice?"

John's chest swelled slightly with pride. So she liked fire, did she? Well, then he was damn well going to show her what fire could do. "Yeah, sure," he said casually, pulling his lighter out of his pocket. Maybe today wasn't going to be a complete waste of time after all. "You, ah, might want to stand back for this," he told her with a smirk, and flicked the lighter open.


	4. Tears and Ice Cream

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Many, many thanks to theshiz for telling me Jones' proper name. Massively appreciated.

* * * * * * * *

"And then a prancing kung-fu pineapple chased a frozen mongoose through my living room!" Nisse Winters declared loudly.

Both Nisse and Dante glanced sideways at Rhiannon, who had not even batted an eye at her friend's blatantly ridiculous announcement; she continued to stare blankly at her dinner plate as though fascinated by her salad. The pair exchanged a Look, and then Dante said, "Alright. That's it." Leaning over, he poked Rhiannon sharply in the ribs.

The girl yelped, jumped, and glared at her friends, rubbing her side. "What the hell was that for?" she demanded.

"Have you heard a word we've said all afternoon?" Nisse retorted.

"Yes," Rhiannon said defensively.

Dante cocked an eyebrow at her. "Prove it," he challenged.

Rhiannon gulped. "You… you were talking… um… about…" she screwed up her face in deep concentration, "pineapples?"

Dante looked impressed. "Even when she's not listening, she manages to retain information," he said sarcastically. Rhiannon stuck out her tongue at him.

"So what on Earth are you thinking about that's got you so distracted?" Nisse asked her.

A small smile stole over Rhiannon's face. "Nothing," she said in an innocent tone that fooled no one. The other two just looked at her. "Oh, all right, I admit it. I am thinking about John Allerdyce."

"Pyro?" Nisse stared. "_Why?_"

Rhiannon looked a little offended. "Why not? What's wrong with him?"

"If you hadn't noticed, he's kind of an ass," Dante pointed out.

"He's not! How d'you know that? Have you ever even talked to him?"

"He IS in my computer tech class, dearest."

"He what?" Rhiannon gaped at her friend. "But you… you never mentioned him… and the other day when I met him you introduced yourselves like you didn't know each other…"

"We sit on opposite ends of the room in a class that doesn't involve much talking. I know who he _is_, but I don't _know_ him."

"So? How d'you know he's an ass, then?"

Dante appeared to give this due consideration. "Well," he said reasonably, "mostly because he tried to set Kitty Pryde's skirt on fire as a joke. He missed and ended up taking out an entire row of computers before Bobby Drake iced the whole thing over."

Rhiannon found herself half horrified, half giggling. As dangerous and stupid a stunt as it might have been, she couldn't help finding it amusing. "Well," she chortled, "I don't think he's an ass. I think he just needs a little more attention than he gets."

"Yes, well," Nisse observed, her tone dripping with sweetness, "you seem more than inclined to give him that attention, so I think the boy's got his bases covered, hmm?"

Instead of the giggle Nisse had expected from her friend, Rhiannon's face turned red, and began to take on the closed look she got whenever she was about to cry.

"Rhi?" Nisse said tentatively, concerned. "What's wrong? What'd I say?"

"Nothing." Rhiannon shook her head, her expression clearing, but Nisse caught the vague glimmer in the air as she did so. "I'm fine," Rhiannon said.

Nisse and Dante exchanged another look, and Dante, taking the hint, got up from the table and left without a word. He could tell when it was time for girl talk. "Don't pretend with me, Optica," Nisse said quietly, using her friend's mutant name. "I know you better than that."

There was a sniffle, and again the slight flicker, and abruptly Rhiannon's face was beet red again, and there were tears rolling down her cheeks.

"Rhi!" Shocked, Nisse slid out of her chair to go sit beside the other girl. "What on Earth did I say? Whatever it was, I'm sorry!"

"It's—it's not your fault," Rhiannon hiccupped, her body shaking with sobs. "Just… bad choice of words for today, that's all." She gulped back a fresh hiccup, and added, "I think I need to go to bed."

Ordinarily, Nisse would have argued. It was only eight-thirty, after all, and Rhiannon was a natural night owl – she rarely went to sleep before three a.m. But Nisse had never seen her friend worked into such a state, and it worried her. So all she said was, "Alright. I'll come with you, get you tucked in, okay?"

Rhiannon nodded, swallowing hard. "I'm switching off now," she said. "I'd rather people not see me like this."

'Switching off' was their warning code phrase for when Rhiannon was about to hide behind one of her illusions. Nisse hated it when Rhiannon took on an appearance that was not her own – she firmly believed that Rhiannon should be proud of who she was, not to mention it was a pain in the ass not knowing where her friend was actually physically standing – but again, she didn't argue as she suddenly found herself standing next to a girl who was the absolute picture of mediocrity.

Average height; hair of average length of a common light brown color; average eyes, average mouth, average T-shirt of an average size in some nondescript shade. Jeans of average length that were neither baggy nor tight but were, well, average. Even the sneakers were completely un-noteworthy. Nisse shuddered; she much preferred Rhiannon's own tall, pudgy, bright-eyed form, with her bizarre clothes that were something between Renaissance romanti-goth and military prison escapee.

The optical illusion reached a hand out and took hold of Nisse's arm; it was unnerving to feel Rhiannon's familiar grip from someone who was so obviously not Rhiannon, but at the same time she felt much better knowing her friend was right there beneath the illusion.

Arm in arm, the two girls headed for the stairs and the senior girls' dormitory.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

Click. Snap. Click. Snap.

It was two o'clock in the morning, and John still couldn't sleep. So here he was, sitting on the couch in the common room with Jones, flicking his lighter open and closed as the child beside him surfed the late-night TV shows.

He'd been very quiet since he'd returned from his morning practice session. He'd made small talk while he ate lunch with Bobby and Rogue – who had both seemed suspicious of his rapid turnaround of mood – but aside from that, John had barely said two words to anyone all afternoon. And for once, it wasn't because he was feeling antisocial.

He'd been thinking about the hours he'd spent with Rhiannon that morning, and that was unusual because he didn't spend a lot of time thinking about girls. Oh, sure, he thought about _women_ – he wasn't gay, and he _was_ a teenage male. It kind of went with the territory. But the women who usually occupied his fantasies were tall, big-breasted twenty-something blondes in string bikinis who fawned on him because he was such a powerful mutant (something everyone else seemed to completely fail to recognize.) Mousy girls his own age with large eyes who wore steel-toed combat boots with their long skirts and high-necked peasant blouses did not generally figure largely in his thoughts.

So his preoccupation with her might have puzzled him, if he wasn't still so busy trying to work out why _she_ had seemed so preoccupied with _him_. Yeah, sure, there was her "thing" with fire – and he couldn't deny that her eyes had followed every flame he produced with hungry fascination. But every time he'd turned to say something to her, he'd found himself the subject of her full and undivided attention – and attention was not something he was used to getting from anyone these days. And not only that, but she'd actually _listened_ to everything he'd had to say, so that he began to want to say more. He'd even told her about the time he'd set the family Christmas tree on fire, and THAT was something only Bobby, Rogue, and Professor Xavier had ever heard about.

"Hey, Pyro man, what're you doin' up so late?"

John and Jones looked around to see Bobby standing behind the couch. Jones paid him no attention whatsoever, simply turned right back to his channel surfing. John, on the other hand, looked up at his friend curiously. "I was gonna get some ice cream, you want some?" Bobby said.

Shrugging, John stood up. "Why not?" It wasn't like he had anything better to be doing.

The two boys trudged silently down the hall to the kitchen. John reached to shove the door open, but with a jerk Bobby's hand shot out and stopped him. John looked at him, startled, and saw that he was frowning. "Shhhh," Bobby said softly, putting a finger to his lips and reaching carefully down for the doorknob. Now that it was quiet, John could hear what Bobby had: the crash of metal on the bricked floor.

They glanced at each other and tensed; John clicked his lighter open so that he'd be ready as Bobby slowly turned the handle and opened the door. They peered cautiously around it.

"What the…?!"

Dante Williams and Nisse Winters looked around from where they had been making out next to the refrigerator. "Hi," Dante said casually, grinning like a maniac.

"What the hell are you two doing?!" John demanded.

Dante's grin widened. "What does it _look_ like we're doing?" he replied easily.

"Well, yeah… but why the fuck are you doing it in the KITCHEN?!"

Dante's grin became positively evil, and he held up a canister of whipped cream.

"…I'm sorry I asked," John said disgustedly, his face screwed up.

Nisse burst out laughing, then, with a last sly look at John and Bobby, grabbed Dante by the hand and hauled him out of the kitchen, letting the door bang shut behind them.

"I hope she realizes I'm not going to be able to eat for a week," John said, flopping down in a chair while Bobby rummaged through the freezer for his ice cream.

"Don't be such a wuss," Bobby said, grinning. "You wouldn't believe half the stuff Rogue and I—"

"I DON'T NEED TO KNOW THIS!" John said loudly, talking over whatever it was Bobby had been about to say.

"Sure man. Whatever you say," Bobby said smugly. He finally found the carton of ice cream he'd been after, and proceeded to dole out two bowls of the stuff for himself and John. Sitting down across from his friend and digging into his ice cream, he asked, "So what _is_ keeping you up at this hour?"

There was a long pause while John considered his answer. He wasn't quite sure what to tell Bobby – any attempt at describing Rhiannon failed miserably, and anyway he wasn't sure he wanted Bobby to know that it was Rhiannon he was thinking about. Finally he settled for, "Chicks."

Bobby smirked. "Who's keeping you up tonight? Miss June or Miss February?"

"Fuck you," John growled, glaring at the other boy. Under the table, he clicked his lighter open.

"Appreciate the offer, but I don't swing that way," Bobby shot back, his smirk widening.

He didn't hear the click and hiss as John lit the Zippo flame until it was too late. He found himself suddenly sitting on front of a bowl full of completely melted chocolate chip… well, it was just cream now. And was that his eyebrows smoking?!

"You little _shit!_" Iceman exclaimed, grinning. He reached out, intending to freeze Pyro's own ice cream into a solid lump of ice, and realized the other boy's bowl was already empty. Damn. The punk was getting wise to his tricks. He settled instead for leaving an icy hand whose middle finger was extended in Pyro's direction.

Pyro snickered and aimed a fireball at the hand, but a blast of red light hit it first, sending shards of ice all over the table. Both boys whipped around to find Scott "Cyclops" Summers standing in the kitchen doorway. Both gulped.


	5. Into The Frying Pan

"Allerdyce! Don't forget, detention tonight in the kitchens! Be there at 5:30 sharp to help prep."

John waved over his shoulder to indicate he'd understood as he left Cyclops' auto tech class. "Fuck this," he muttered as he stalked towards Medieval History with Professor X. He had not, in fact, forgotten about the detention he'd received as punishment both for fighting with another student (even if it had been only a joke) and for using his powers inside. In fact, it was _all_ he'd been thinking about ever since he'd gotten the detention the night before.

John _despised_ working in the school kitchens during mealtimes. It was hot, messy work and he inevitably had to deal with the stupidest and most annoying students, who were determined to make his punishment even more miserable than it already was. At least Bobby only had to mop the dining hall afterward. John was equally annoyed about that – why couldn't _he_ have been assigned the mopping? At least then he wouldn't have to deal with morons who thought they had a free ticket to pick on him purely because he'd been caught messing around. It just wasn't fair.

His face was as dark and angry as a stormcloud as he stomped down the hallway, turned a corner, and ran smack into a girl.

"Oomph!" The girl's feet tangled themselves and she landed with a flump on the floor, her black hair flopping into her face and obscuring her grey eyes.

"Sorry," John grunted. He reached out a hand to help her up without even looking at her.

She allowed him to help her to her feet, and then, when he turned to walk away, drawled, "Aw, Allerdyce… don't I even get a hello?"

John stopped, turned, and raised an eyebrow. "Should you get one?" he retorted.

The shimmer that flickered in the air was, by now, becoming almost familiar, so John wasn't very surprised to suddenly find Rhiannon standing in front of him again. He glared at her. "If you look like a different fucking girl every _fucking_ time I see you, how the HELL can you expect me to say hello? Use your _head_, woman!"

He hadn't meant to snap, but he was in no mood to put up with even more ridiculous expectations. He felt guilty the moment he'd stopped, half expecting her to burst into tears again; she'd seemed so overly emotional the few times he'd talked to her. But instead she just grinned broadly at him. "You're right, of course," she said simply. "Sorry about that."

Once again, her ready apology caught him off guard. "Whatever," he grunted. "You okay?"

"Fine," she said lightly. He didn't see her wince as she dusted off her knees. "So," she went on, "what's with the snarky attitude?" She sounded more curious than offended.

John's lip curled. "Got sacked with a detention," he said disgustedly. "I get to 'volunteer' in the kitchens for dinner."

Rhiannon's face took on a pained expression. "Damn, that _sucks_," she said sympathetically. "I hate working in the kitchens – the other kids give you so much crap…"

"Tell me about it," John snorted. "And all Iceman's gotta do is mop the floors afterward. I got jacked, I tell ya."

"Iceman… you mean Bobby Drake?"

John nodded. "Cyclops caught us goofing off in the student kitchen last night, busted us both. But I'm the only one who has to put up with actual kitchen duty. Damn it," he added, running a hand through his hair and leaning dejectedly against the wall.

Rhiannon appeared to give this due consideration, and then said thoughtfully, "Want some company?"

John turned to look at her, slack-jawed and staring. "Company?" he repeated blankly. "What… you mean you'd actually volunteer in the kitchens just to help me out?"

"Volunteer?" She laughed merrily. "Hells, no! That would be completely out of character." Her smile turned mischievous. "But I don't doubt I could arrange to be sacked with a detention of my own."

For a moment, John wasn't sure whether to burst out laughing or ask if she had some sort of mental defect. She was willing to get herself into trouble just to spend time around him?! _What_ was going on? "Are you nuts?" he managed at last.

"Quite possibly!" she said happily. "So how about it? Think you can put up with me if it means you only have to do half the work tonight?"

John stared at her for another moment, and then gave her a grin and stuck out his hand. "You're on," he said as she shook it.

* * * * * * * *

"Yo, Iceman!"

Bobby turned at the sound of his mutant nickname, and found John jogging up the hallway toward him. "What's up, man?" he asked. He was surprised to see his friend looked cheerful – he'd expected the pyrokinetic to be in a towering rage after getting a detention.

"I was wondering if you and Rogue might wanna head into town for lunch, instead of eating in the dining hall," John said, coming to a halt beside the other boy.

Bobby looked suddenly guilty. "Dude, Rogue and I have a date for lunch today… didn't I tell you?"

"Oh." John deflated. "No, you didn't."

Squirming uncomfortably, Bobby said, "Sorry, man. Guess I forgot. But we'll see you for lunch tomorrow, a'ight?" he added, giving John a gentle punch on the shoulder.

"Yeah," John said tonelessly. "Sure. Whatever." He turned and walked off without another word.

Slamming his lunch tray down on the counter, John took a deep breath and tried to calm the anger rising in his throat. It wasn't really Bobby's fault that he was into his girlfriend – hell, any guy with half decent eyesight would be into Marie if he was dating her, and plenty were into her who _weren't_. And it wasn't Rogue's fault she looked as good as she did, or that she was so sweet and had stolen Bobby's heart without even having to try.

At least, that was what John kept telling himself. It wasn't working.

Right now, he hated both of them. Damn them and their stupid little self-absorbed lovey-dovey-ness. It made him sick to his stomach. With a snarl, John strode away from the lunch line, looking around for a table – and caught sight of Rhiannon, who was sitting nearby with her friends Nisse and Dante.

"You gotta be kidding me," Dante was saying loudly. "You're going to get yourself a detention _on purpose?_"

John watched Nisse shake her head. "Come on, Rhi. I know you better than that. When have you EVER gotten yourself into trouble on purpose?" She cocked an eyebrow at her blonde friend. "What's in it for you?"

Across the room, Rhiannon's smile turned sly, and she leaned in towards the other two to whisper. John couldn't catch what she was saying, but the expressions on Nisse's and Dante's faces slowly went from skeptical to surprised to impressed.

"Girl, you are positively _evil_," Nisse said admiringly.

"Yes, well," said Rhiannon, smiling sweetly, "you know I always get what I want." As her companions burst into laughter, Rhiannon's eyes traveled around the room – and caught sight of John, who was still staring at her. She started to give him a small, innocent smile, but John, furious at what he'd overheard, glared at her, dropped his lunch tray to the table with a crash, and stormed from the dining hall without looking back. 


	6. Out Of The Fire

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**: I apologize for the horrifically long gap between chapters, but my Chibi!Pyro muse abandoned me and I was getting nowhere on this fic. Fortunately, he seems to have returned, or at least sent another muse to take his place temporarily, so we should be seeing more chapters soon. Everybody cross your fingers!

**AUTHOR'S NOTE 2**: I also apologize for the disgusting Mary Sue-ishness of this chapter, and I promise on pain of death it will not happen again. I swear I wouldn't have put you through it if it wasn't necessary to the plot line.

* * * * * * * *

It was five thirty on the nose when Rhiannon stepped into the roasting warmth of the kitchen. Before her stretched a long room; on her left, a row of stoves, ovens, and sinks lined the wall, while to her right was the counter where people lined up to be served. Occupying most of the space in between were a series of square tables where the food was being chopped and prepared for cooking.

John Allerdyce was already there, standing next to a tall girl with a curly blonde ponytail; both of them were slicing carrots for the stew that was already boiling on the stoves. He glanced up as she approached, and to her surprise his eyes hardened and he went back to cutting his carrot without a word to acknowledge her presence. Her smile faltered.

The girl with the ponytail caught sight of her abruptly, and beamed. "Hi!" she said brightly. "Come to help, have you?"

Rhiannon, glad that someone at least was speaking to her, returned the girl's smile. "Detention, actually," she answered ruefully, and shot a hopeful grin at John, but he was refusing to look at her. She wondered what was wrong.

The girl laughed. "What'd you do?"

Rhiannon was interrupted in the middle of her answer by a bellow from Inge, the head chef, a good-natured portly woman in her mid-forties with a perpetually smiling mouth. "Ve haff tventy minutes," she boomed, as everyone looked around to listen to her. "You haff your instructions, people, let's get to vork!"

Dutifully, Rhiannon picked up a knife and began chopping celery sticks into bite-sized pieces as the blonde girl – who had introduced herself as Laurie Taylor – chattered something about the benefits of carrots for good eyesight. Rhiannon was only half listening; instead, she was shooting surreptitious glances across the countertop at John, but he was still looking only at the carrot and knife in his hands. His full lips were pressed into a thin line, which gave Rhiannon the distinct impression that he was trying to control his temper. **_What on Earth can have made him so angry?_** she wondered. **_And what does it have to do with me?_**

Her wandering thoughts were brought back to her task by a sharp squeak from Laurie. Rhiannon's head snapped up just in time to see Laurie hold up her left hand, consider the bloody stump of a now-missing index finger, and then say in a tone of supreme boredom, "Well, damn. That's going to sting in the morning."

Rhiannon gaped at her, astounded that anyone could be so calm about having just sliced a finger right off. "You—but it—" she babbled, her head reeling. She'd never minded the sight of blood, but severed limbs were another matter entirely. Forcing down a wave of nausea, she said instead, "Shall I go get the nurse?"

"What?" Laurie looked up, her expression puzzled. "Oh! No no no, I'll be just fine. They grow back, you see." When Rhiannon just stared at her, she went on, "It's my power, you know? I'm like a lizard. Chop me up and I grow right back," she finished cheerfully.

"Oh, is that all?" said Rhiannon weakly. It made her feel slightly better to notice that John looked equally horrified by Laurie's mangled hand, but only slightly, because he was still refusing to look at her. Her heart sank even lower.

During their three hours of mutual detention, however, Rhiannon's confusion and depression slowly turned into anger. She hadn't _done_ anything to deserve this treatment, damnit! Wasn't it obvious that she'd done this for _him?_ She'd gotten herself into detention so that she could spend time with him, so that he wouldn't have to feel so lonely – didn't he understand the sacrifice she was making?

His determinedly stony silence answered that question for her.

She was in such a foul mood that even Dante's and Nisse's attempts to cheer her up went completely unnoticed. When Dante, grinning from ear to ear, yelled, "Yo, coffee bitch!" at her across the dining hall, she snarled at him so ferociously that he and Nisse exchanged a surprised glance. And when Nisse attempted to ask her what was wrong, all she would say was, "I don't know, so don't ask." But the furious glare she threw at John, who was serving stew at the counter, told them all they needed to know.

Finally the miserable experience was over; eager to escape the heat of the kitchens, Rhiannon washed up as quickly as she could and slipped out. She walked quickly, hoping she could get back to her dorm without seeing John again – his sudden coldness made her feel sick with humiliation and anger. But predictably enough, luck was not with her, and she ran right into him as she rounded the first corner.

He grunted, realized who she was, and his lip curled. He began to walk away, but in a split second Rhiannon had grabbed his arm, deciding that if karma had thrown them together, she was damned well going to seize the opportunity and get the answers she wanted.

"Hey," she demanded, "what the hell is going on with you? Why aren't you talking to me?"

John growled and shook his arm violently free of her grip. "As if you didn't know," he sneered.

"If I knew, I wouldn't be asking," she shot back coldly.

"Shove it," he told her. "The innocence act is not going to work any more. I _heard_ you. What was it you wanted from me, anyway?"

"What?" Rhiannon gaped at him, completely lost. "I'm sorry, what are you talking about?"

"I heard you!" he snarled. "I fucking _heard_ you! 'I always get what I want,'" he mimicked sourly. "Feel free to deny it all you like, but I heard you tell your little friends you were using me – so excuse me if I tell you I don't fucking want to hear it."

She blinked at him, jaw dropping as she stared, and then, to John's total astonishment, grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him into a kiss that sent his head spinning. And it wasn't one of her illusions either: he could really _feel_ her lips on his, her waist under his hands as he clutched at her to steady himself.

"You," she said calmly when she finally released him, "are a twap."

"I—what?" Now it was John's turn to blink and stare. "Okay. Now I'm REALLY confused."

That brought a small smile to Rhiannon's face. "I freely admit that I had devious ulterior motives when I worked to get that detention," she said simply.

"You do?"

"Absolutely. I was hoping my antics might clue you in to the fact that I like you, John Allerdyce. Kind of a lot."

"Um," he said, which was about the most eloquent thing he could think of. That was certainly the last place he'd expected that confrontation to go. Why on Earth would she like him? Sure, there were his impressive powers, and yeah, he was witty, and he was undeniably a schnazzy dresser if he did say so himself, and really now that he came to think of it all this was starting to sound terribly convincing... "You— you actually like me?" He couldn't quite believe it.

Rhiannon snickered. "What, that kiss didn't make that clear enough?"

"We-ell, I don't know," John said thoughtfully. "I might need a repeat performance to be sure…" She laughed outright at that, and as he leaned in to kiss her again, she slipped her hand into his, letting their fingers intertwine.

"So what exactly did you do to get your detention?" he asked after a long moment.

A wicked grin flitted across Rhiannon's face. "Oh, nothing much," she dodged. "Let's just say that painting of Abraham Lincoln in the foyer now resembles shiny purple badgers more than it does our dear departed President."


	7. So Much For Perfect

Later, John would remember the two happy weeks they'd shared, the thirteen days of peace before everything started to go down hill. He would remember late night conversations, practical jokes shared with Dante and Nisse, days on the town with Rogue and Bobby, sitting together on the couch and mocking television shows – two weeks of just _being_ together without thought or care for the outside world. He would remember, and for a while his heart would lift; but memories of the nightmares inevitably followed on the heels of those happy images, and he would sink back into bitterness and resentment.

It had begun after one of those late conversations; the pair of them, having talked themselves hoarse, had settled for watching a movie in the student lounge, and Rhiannon had fallen asleep curled up in his arms. For a long while John ignored the movie and simply watched her sleep. She wasn't as pretty when she slept; much of what made her attractive, at least to John, was in the personality her face expressed, and sleep erased all traces of that. But there was something strange and haunting about her still, something old but innocent, something that hinted at a great and mysterious potential locked behind those fragile eyelashes.

He was so involved in his thoughts that he nearly toppled off the couch in shock when she suddenly shot straight out of his arms, a scream rising and breaking in her throat.

"What the—?!" John reacted more out of instinct than thought – grabbing her shoulders, he jerked her around to face him and stared into her wide, horrified eyes. "What the hell is going on?" he demanded.

With a great gasp, Rhiannon shuddered and relaxed again, tears beginning to stream down her cheeks. Her hands clutched futilely at the slippery leather of the couch, as if she were trying to find something solid and real to hold on to. Somehow John sensed the need and took her hands in his, wincing only slightly as her fingernails bit into the backs of his hands. "What is it?" he asked her, slightly more calmly now that she had stopped screaming.

"Nothing," she gulped, "it's nothing." Which, between the terrified expression on her face and the way she was shaking like a leaf in a windstorm, was clearly horseshit.

John cocked one eyebrow at her. "Right," he said sarcastically. "And I'm Medda Larkson." She dropped her eyes, suddenly unwilling to look at him; he sighed and shook his head. "Fine. Don't tell me. Whatever."

"I think I need to go to bed," she said in a small voice.

He wanted to be angry with her, wanted to glare and snarl until she explained what was going on, but the hollow, dead look on her face drained the fury out of him. Something was seriously wrong, that much was obvious – but it was equally obvious that any explanation would have to wait at least until morning. "Alright," he said quietly. He slid off the couch and helped her to her feet, surprised to find she was leaning on him as if she genuinely needed his support. He added it to his mental list of questions to ask tomorrow.

At last they made it up the stairs to the older girls' dormitory; he bade her goodnight with a kiss on the cheek and a hug, which she returned tightly. He watched her until the door closed behind her, and then wandered back to his own room… but he lay awake for several long hours, hearing the echo of her screams.

He caught her just outside the breakfast hall and surprised her with a daffodil – picked from the school gardens, but she didn't need to know that. The weary smile she gave him as he kissed her good morning told him she hadn't slept any better than he had, and suddenly he felt awkward. He wanted to ask her about last night, but part of him suddenly wasn't sure he wanted to know. If she told him, would she expect him to make it better? Would he have the burden of trying to solve her problems? He'd spent his whole life running from responsibility; could he really choose to take it now?

"Feel like talkin' about it?" he asked before he could stop himself.

Well. That answered that question.

"Not really," she said, her smile vanishing and her eyes growing distant.

John blinked. He hadn't anticipated a no. "Why not?" he demanded. "Don't you trust me?"

"I trust you," she said, so seriously he knew he couldn't argue with it. "But this doesn't concern you. It's my problem. It's my fight."

"Okay, I hate to break it to you," John snapped, "but anything that makes my girlfriend wake up screaming in the middle of the night damn well concerns me!" She smiled at him sadly and moved to hug him, but he pushed her away. "No!" he cried, beginning to get angry. "I'm not dropping this that easily. I want to know what's wrong, Rhiannon."

She gave him one long, searching look, and then turned on her heel and strode away from him without a single word. John, infuriated, slammed a fist into the wall. Leaning his forehead against the cool wood paneling, he willed himself to calm down.

"What was that all about?"

John looked up to find that Nisse and Dante had arrived with the last of the students turning up for breakfast – just in time to see Rhiannon stalk off. "_I_ don't know," he snarled bitterly. "She won't tell _me_."

Nisse looked unexpectedly sympathetic. "One of her nightmares, huh?" she asked.

"Yeah," John said slowly. "Look, do _you_ know what—"

A shake of her head cut him off. "No," she told him. "She never would tell me, either."

"Or me," put in Dante, and his eyes were sad.

John was surprised. These two were Rhiannon's very best friends, and she hadn't told them what was wrong? "So how do you deal with it?" he asked.

The girl shrugged. "We had to learn to trust that she knows when she can handle it," she said softly, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Now come on. Let's get breakfast."


	8. Trust the Darkness

Rhiannon had to work hard to control her emotions as she walked out of the school and onto the cold grounds; she wouldn't admit it, but she had felt tempted for only the second time in her life to tell someone about her night terrors. She'd had to run before the words escaped.

Sucking in great gulps of chilly air as she tried to calm down, she found her feet unconsciously taking her toward the stone courtyard where she'd first watched Pyro practice. It was time to exercise her powers again – though the nightmare had left her rattled, she'd also seen more of it than she ever had, and she was shaking with the combined fear and anticipation of examining the new details.

She sat down cross-legged on the stone, wrapping her arms tightly around herself to ward off the chill and wishing she hadn't stormed off without a coat. She knew she was missing breakfast, but she couldn't bear the idea of being around people just now – she'd pester the kitchen staff for a snack later. Closing her eyes, Rhiannon pushed her mind into the relaxation state the Professor had taught her, and piece by piece began to build the scene of her nightmare around her.

It wouldn't have looked like a nightmare to anyone else; a pretty woman in her early forties sat curled on a leather couch, reading a newspaper and paying no attention to the glowing television screen in front of her. On the floor between the couch and the entertainment center, a little girl sat playing with a pair of dolls, dressing and undressing them in an endless fashion show. When Rhiannon was certain she had every detail in place, down to the steaming coffee cup on the end table, she faced the woman and steeled herself to relive the nightmare.

Slowly, out of the darkness behind the couch, the figure of a man materialized. Goggled, gloved, and dressed in black, he made no sound as he moved cautiously to stand behind the woman on the couch. Rhiannon felt the tears start then, saw the scene give a flicker, and forced the emotions down until the illusion steadied once more. **_Separate your emotions from your abilities_**, she told herself mentally, the thought taking on the voice of the Professor who had so often repeated it. Before her, the black-clad man raised one hand – a hand that clutched a vicious-looking knife.

It happened in a matter of seconds: in one swift movement the man stepped forward, clutched the woman's hair, and slit her throat so hard that the slice nearly severed her head from her neck. The child beside Rhiannon looked up and opened her mouth in a silent scream, then vanished with a faint glimmer. The man, visibly startled, tore off his goggle mask and looked wildly around the room. Rhiannon let out a small sob.

The man had no face.

Unable to keep up the illusion any longer, Rhiannon let it drop and allowed the full force of her emotions to take over. She bent double as she cried, her face pressed against her knees, shaking with her determination not to grieve aloud.

It wasn't fair, damn it. It wasn't fair! Why could she never recall his face? She curled up, cheek pressed against the stone of the courtyard, and waited for the tears to subside.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

John had skipped class after breakfast, gone to his room and stretched out on the bed as he tried to think. It wasn't easy; emotions and thoughts were so tangled he could barely tell which was which, and he hadn't had all that much practice untying such mental knots. But his worry for Rhiannon and Nisse's quiet words had made him willing to try.

He focused on what Nisse had said – "We had to learn to trust that she knows when she can handle it." Trust was not something Saint John Allerdyce took lightly, not after the life he'd led. Between a family who hated him, schoolmates who tormented him, and a society that publicly shunned those of his kind, the only trustworthy people John had ever known were right here at Mutant High. And even they were few and far between.

So the question was, could he learn to trust Rhiannon? She was his girlfriend; that implied a certain amount of trust to begin with, trust that she wouldn't break his heart. But the problem was that he hadn't really given her his heart at all. He'd given her only the appearance of it – the kisses, the flirty words, the hugs and the holding hands. He'd given her nothing of himself; or at least nothing he hadn't already given to someone else. Hell, she didn't even know his full name was Saint John.

On the other hand, how could anyone expect him to trust her? He'd only known her for three weeks! Yet he realized, even as he thought it, that nobody _did_ expect him to trust her. There might be people who _hoped_ he would – Bobby and Rogue, definitely, and probably Nisse, and certainly Rhiannon herself. But none of them _expected _him to. The realization was startling.

He wondered, as he turned over onto his stomach and wrapped his arms around a pillow, whether Rhiannon trusted _him_. He was surprised to find he really didn't know the answer. She said she did, and most of him believed her, but then why did she refuse to tell him what was going on with her? Her paradoxical attitude had his head spinning. He growled softly to himself in frustration.

Changing tack, he thought about the people he did trust. Why did he trust them? He trusted Bobby because… well… Bobby was Bobby. He shook his head; unless he could come up with a better reason than that, he was never going to get anywhere. So why _exactly_ did he trust Bobby?

Because Bobby had proven time and time again that he would do anything for John, even up to taking punishments for him. He always reamed John for it later, of course, but he took the punishments themselves without complaint. He didn't expected John to return the favor, he just did it because John was his friend. John trusted that Bobby would always be there for him.

And Rogue… Rogue he trusted because she knew secrets about him, knew personal private things, and had kept them to herself. She'd never let them slip, either accidentally or on purpose, and she'd never used the knowledge as a bargaining chip to manipulate him the way his stepfather had always done.

So how did all this apply to Rhiannon? She hadn't taken punishments for him – but she _had_ taken punishments _with_ him so he wouldn't have to do them alone. Didn't that count for the same thing? And she didn't know many secrets, but she knew about the Christmas tree incident, and thus far hadn't told anyone; that made two reasons to trust her.

But it was so hard…

*Mister Allerdyce.*

John jumped when the voice echoed in his head, but he recognized it immediately as the Professor's. "Yeah?" he said aloud. He guessed what was coming – he should have known better than to stay in the school while he was skipping class.

*Please come see me in my office.*

Sighing, John slid off the bed and trudged down the stairs toward a lecture.


	9. Apologies Accepted

"Have you seen her at all today?"

Dante shook his head, the briefest flicker of concern crossing his pale face. "Just the back of her head," he told Nisse, referring to the morning's incident between John and their missing friend. The pair of them were on the dining hall patio, talking over lunch.

"Hmm." Nisse's face darkened. "I wonder if she—" She broke off when Elizabeth Donnen came trotting up to them. She was carrying what looked like an oversized metal salad fork and had a sack full of lumpy objects over one shoulder.

"I don't suppose either of you knows where John Allerdyce is, do you?" she asked plaintively.

Two pairs of eyebrows shot up. "No," said Dante carefully. "Why?"

Elizabeth dropped the sack on the table between them and lifted out a small red potato. "I was going to ask if he'd roast a few of these for me," she said. "I just can't seem to get them to aim right when they're raw, and I wanted to find out if it's just the extra moisture in 'em or if it's the potatoes themselves."

"Um. Sparks?" Nisse said slowly. "Can I ask what exactly you're doing with those potatoes?"

Elizabeth beamed, stuck a fork into the potato, and touched one crackling finger to the metal; immediately the potato shot from the end of the fork, ricocheted off the wall, and landed with a crash on one of the terra cotta plant pots, which shattered. "Projectile potatoes!" she announced. "They don't go where they're s'posed to, though," she added mournfully.

Without missing a beat, Dante turned to his girlfriend. "You realize I'm going to have to kill you now," he said calmly.

Nisse, torn between total horror and a mad desire to laugh, choked on a giggle and fell out of her chair. "Sparks," she spluttered between coughs, "did it ever occur to you that maybe the problem is that the fork tines are curved?"

The girl blinked, stared at the salad fork for a moment, and then her face lit up. "Heeeey! Thanks!" she said brightly, and wandered away.

It was a few moments before Nisse noticed that Dante was looking very pointedly between his steel-toed boot and her rear end. "Eek! No!" she squeaked, rolling quickly out of range of his foot.

"Give me one good reason why not?" he demanded.

"Oh, come on. She looked so disappointed! I couldn't just leave her hanging, could I?"

"Yes," he said emphatically. "You could." But he was grinning; reaching out a hand, he helped her up off the floor.

* * * * * * * *

Taking a deep breath, John stepped into the senior girls' dormitory and said, "Boo."

The girl jumped. She obviously hadn't heard the door open, and John's voice had sounded too loud in the silence of the empty dorm room. "Hi," she said guardedly, looking up at him from where she was sprawled on her bed.

"Can I come in?"

"Go for it." Rhiannon watched him warily as he crossed the room and sat down on the bed next to hers. They hadn't seen each other since their fight at breakfast and John was vaguely relieved that she had decided to speak to him again.

"So. Um. I didn't see you around today," he said, staring at his hands and feeling spectacularly awkward.

"I had some things to do."

"Right. Of course."

When he didn't say anything more, Rhiannon sat up. "Look, John, what's—"

He held up a hand, and she stopped. "Wait. I'm never gonna say this if I don't say it now, so give me a minute. I was really pissed this morning when you wouldn't tell me what was going on. And I'm not apologizing for that, because I shouldn't have to apologize to my girlfriend for caring about her. But I do apologize for being mad that you didn't trust me. At first I thought, well, I'm her boyfriend, of course she should trust me! But that isn't really fair because you're my girlfriend and I don't trust you." He held up a hand when she opened her mouth to say something. "No, it has nothing to do with you, I just… I haven't had a lot of reasons to trust people, so it doesn't come easy. What I'm trying to say is, I'm willing to try. I like you, Rhi, and I don't want this to be the end of us just because I'm a stubborn prick. I can start by trusting you to know that you can handle this, but I also need to be able to trust you to tell me if you can't."

A long, echoing silence greeted the end of his monologue; John let it stretch as far as he could before glancing up to meet Rhiannon's eyes. To his great surprise there were tears in them.

"Are you always this good with apologies?" she asked, a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Because if you are, it's going to be bloody hard to stay mad at you."

Nervous tension forced itself out as laughter. "So are we okay, then?" He felt suddenly shy.

"Yeah."

"And you'll try to trust me if I try to trust you?"

"Yeah," she said quietly, reaching a hand across the space between the beds.

He took it and then, on impulse, pulled her to her feet and kissed her. After a long, breathless moment, she smiled up at him. "Thanks," she murmured, slipping her arms around his neck. He smiled and leaned in to kiss her again

"Ahem!"

They both whipped around, guilty grins on their faces when they saw Rogue standing in the doorway. "As much as I hate to interrupt such a touching moment," she said sarcastically, "John's already been lectured by the Professor once today and I'd hate for him to, you know, get another detention or anything…"

John's grin widened. "Fuck off," he told his friend.

"When and where, sugar?" she retorted, and they all burst out laughing. "Come on, you miscreants," Rogue went on, dropping the banter. "Bobby and I were wondering if you wanted to go into town for dinner."

He glanced down at Rhiannon and, when she nodded, said, "Yeah. That sounds great." Hand in hand they followed Rogue out of the dorm.


End file.
